Saying goodbye to my family farm in the 1960s
Missed the start of series? Read Chapter 1: Aussie Summers – 1950s, Chapter 2: Aussie Winters – 1950s, and Chapter 3: Aussie Winters – 1960s.
Chapter 4: Aussie Summers – 1960s
The 60s were great for me, but did result in the biggest changes in my life, certainly towards the end of the decade. I was in my late teenage years, and a little outspoken as to what I wanted regarding my farming future. However, all of that were to happen much later.
I still loved everything involving the sheep. Uncle Henry still continued to supply us with rams, until his untimely death due to a road accident in Western Australia in early 1962. He was only aged 54 at the time of his death.
His widow was Mum’s sister so Mum immediately flew to WA to comfort her. Mum would later tell us that every day she was away, for about three weeks, the temperature never dropped below 40 degrees.
We still continued growing wheat and barley, the success of which was dependent entirely on receiving the right amount of rain when we needed it. Some years we received too much rain, which could result in partial flooding, other years not enough. This was just part of being a farmer.
This decade saw huge changes as to how harvesting was done. From bags, and carting them all to Wasleys, bulk handling was slowly introduced. The grain was poured into a large bin on the back of the truck and then driven to where there were several grain silos. Once weighed, the truck was driven onto a grid, the sides of the bin opened up to release the grain from where it was sent into one of the huge silos, by various conveyor belts. The truck was then weighed, and the process continued until harvesting was completed.
After I left school, Robin and I did all the tractor work. Robin did the harvesting, and I drove the truck to the silos at Roseworthy which was about a 20-minute truck drive away. Depending on weather conditions, harvesting could take several weeks. I was 16, the first season this happened. It was not uncommon for many of the other truck drivers to be farmers sons of similar age.
It was during the harvest time in ‘63 that American President Kennedy was assassinated. It only seemed like yesterday when this tragic event occurred. I had ridden my bike home from school, and Mum had heard about it on the wireless, so she told me to tell Dad and Robin. Like everyone else, certainly in Australia, everybody was deeply shocked, as JFK appeared to be a great world leader.
Robin was married in the 60s and he and his wife moved onto a recently purchased property about two miles away. As usual, Robin and I had some funny experiences during the summers in that decade.
At the front of his house, was a solid looking stone wall. For some reason, the decision was made for it to be demolished. The intention was for Robin to reverse the truck as close to the wall as possible, so we could dismantle it and put everything onto the truck. I was to tell him when to stop. However, I made a crucial mistake. Instead of being out to the side, I stood directly behind the truck, and directly between the truck and the wall, with Robin slowly inching the truck back. I was getting a little concerned for my health, because despite my best efforts to tell him to stop, he continued reversing. Finally and by now fearful for my life, I yelled out, almost begging him to stop. I’m certain the terror in my voice was heard many miles away. The wall was eventually safely removed without further mishap, or near loss of life.
Another time, he decided to change part of the fence leading from the road, to the house. This required digging several post holes. I decided, because the ground was really hard after a long dry summer, and it was HIS driveway, that he should dig the holes, which he did. A post was then put in the hole, and some dirt tipped back in. Robin then rammed the soil with the round heavy round piece on the end of the crow-bar. This process was repeated several times, until the dirt reached the top of the ground, to make the post nice and tight. Having fenced with Robin previously, it was then customary for me to then ram the ground with the heel of my foot.
A major disaster was about to happen. For some unknown reason, this time we were both ramming at the same time, with the inevitable result that my foot was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was only wearing light-weight old tennis shoes at the time, and soon we could see blood seeping up through the top of my shoe. I was too frightened to see the mess of my big toe, so decided not to take my shoe off.
Eventually we went home and Mum cleaned it up for me. What hurt the most was the fact I was unable to play tennis for a few weeks, because my toe was too sore. I’m not sure if I eventually lost my toe nail or not, as that did not seem so important.
When I was aged about 10, I began playing Under 12 competitive tennis on a Saturday morning. We played against teams like Kangaroo Flat, Gawler River, Sandy Creek and Williamstown to name but a few. As was normal for me, at that age, I had undoubted beliefs (which were totally unfounded) in my abilities with anything sporting. I think there were six players per team. As we had many more players than that, we had to give others a turn, no matter how good we were, or thought we were.
One Friday we were in Gawler doing our weekly shopping. We saw Robin (my best friend’s mother), who was the selector for the team. She told me, that the following day I would not be playing, and would be replaced with a player I felt was well below my abilities.
I was totally devastated because I knew we were playing Kangaroo Flat who happened to be THE best team in the competition. Without me, I knew we would lose, which we did. My rationale at the time for our defeat was simply because I was not playing.
Robin was not yet married and still living at home. He happened to be the Captain of the senior team that played in the afternoon. Sometimes a Gent player would ‘phone about lunch time saying that for some reason he could not play. Rather than trying to get another player at short notice he would ask me… my hero. I still loved to win, but somehow that did not seem so important. I was playing in the same team as my brother and other players I knew and respected, and to me that seemed to be enough.
My sister-in-law and her younger sister, both of whom were top sportswomen in the district eventually joined our team which strengthened it considerably. We later went on to win the prized premiership for many consecutive years.
When aged about 10, if I wasn’t going to become a farmer, then I wanted to travel the world playing tennis like Rod Laver, Lou Hoad, Ken Rosewall, and John Newcombe amongst others.
I truly believed I was that good.
During my final year at primary school, it seemed highly likely that rather attending Gawler High School, I would be sent to boarding school in Adelaide and be coached by one of the State’s leading tennis coaches. It would give everyone a true indication of my abilities, or lack of. Although I hated the ides of being away from the farm, I thought it was a sacrifice worth making. However, circumstances changed and the possibility never eventuated.
By now, both Mum and Dad had become excellent lawn bowlers, winning countless events and trophies. Sometimes on a really hot, summers night I would go along and play with them at Wasleys. It was great fun as I knew most of the people and I really enjoyed it. I was asked to play more regularly, but in those days, bowls was something “older” people played, not energetic teenagers like me.
Initially, we still had our annual holidays at Port Elliot, which were still the highlight of the year. However, a few years later Mum and Dad purchased a caravan, so our holidays were spent visiting different places like Barmera, and Port MacDonnell (south of Mt. Gambier) visiting Uncle Murray’s property at Keith on the way, to name but a few.
These holidays were still great, but different. The highlight one year was when a really neat couple who were farmers and lawn bowler friends, decided to drive to Port Lincoln. For both Alison and I this was really exciting as we knew it was a long drive. To make it even more exciting, we drove through the night, because it was too hot to travel during the day time. I loved following on the map, where we were going. I would have a doze, then excitedly wake up and ask where we were, and then look on the map. It was fantastic to drive through towns I had studied in geography like Port Pirie, Port Augusta, Whyalla and finally Port Lincoln. We had a great holiday, with great friends.
In 1967 we had one of the worst droughts on record, resulting in no financial return from our cereal crops. We also had to sell many of our precious sheep, because we had no feed for them. It was very sad for us and our neighbours to see our once beautiful farms transformed into what looked like deserts.
After much family discussion it was decided to sell the farms, and move to the South East of the state. It was a huge decision, which would affect many lives. Not the best thing to do when gripped in a severe drought, but there were several other factors involved.
I remember our first trip to look at properties. It was early morning after our table tennis Grand Final against our greatest rivals Kangaroo Flat, and it seemed fitting that after years of friendly rivalry, our final, Grand Final would be against them, and that we would win.
After several trips looking at properties and many sleepless nights, two properties were purchased within about an hour’s drive of each other, one farm for Robin and his family, and one for Dad, Mum, Alison and I.
Eventually the properties were sold, farm machinery and tools railed to the new properties, and sheep loaded and moved. It was a mammoth job, not helped by the drought, and by now, oppressive summer heat.
After Robin and family had relocated, it was our turn.
I can still vividly remember the day. It was a really hot summer’s day with the temperature in the low 40’s when the furniture men packed our furniture into a huge van. It took them all day and was dark by the time they had completed their huge task.
After a final clean of all the rooms and our individual goodbyes to our home of many years, a home in which Mum and Dad had raised four children. A home in which they had personally lived for almost 30 years. It was a very emotional time for us all, with very little talking. We were totally absorbed with our own thoughts, and memories.
It was time to begin the next chapter of our lives. We finally left on our 4 hour journey, during which the temperature never dropped below 38 degrees.
We drove in a convoy, Mum and my sister with our spoilt cat in the car. Dad drove the Land-Rover with our sheep dog in the front between us. In the enclosed back, on top of various soft bags, with her head sticking out of a wool pack and looking quite happy, was our spoilt pet kangaroo, Josie. Behind in the trailer were our 20 or so chickens.
It was a slow hot, journey, with numerous stops. We finally arrived at our new home which was empty. We soon settled the animals into their new homes, and relaxed on mattresses we had previously taken down on a previous trip, with a big fan, until the furniture truck arrived.
That day it was 44 degrees in the nearest town. Understandably everyone was exhausted after the furniture truck arrived and everything was safely in the house. We then went for a short drive into town for a much deserved milkshake.
The next day, we all started our new lives. We knew things would be different and would take time to adjust to everything new, but we were still going to be farmers, so nothing had changed. We would still be reliant, as we always had been, on the weather. That was not about to change.
To quote the words from a well-known poem we learnt at school, written by Dorothea Mackellar in 1908, part of which reads:
I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of rugged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding plains,
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel sea,
Her beauty and her terror
The wide brown land for me
The 17 years were amazing with some great, and some not so great years financially, but always happy, with fantastic memories. How appropriate therefore to end my stories about South Australian weather with such a beautiful poem.